Pneumonia
by datsherlockearhat
Summary: Sherlock gets a bad case of pneumonia and John takes him on a vacation to the country. But when a case follows them, will they both survive? It gets a bit gory towards the end, so don't read if you have a particularly graphic imagination or get nightmares easily etc. No coarse language, because I completely forgot about that. Prompt by Catie501. Big Hugs!


**Hello everybody! I know it's been ages since I last posted a story, but I got a Saturday off, and I am finally finished! Huge hugs to Catie501 for the brilliant prompt! Feel free to leave a prompt or review if you want more!**

**Melissa xxx**

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Sherlock woke to find himself somewhere he wasn't expecting.

He knew that cold had gotten worse, but he was expecting to be at the hospital (even though he hated being there – he thought John would have made him) or at least at HOME like last time. But no.

He didn't even know where he was. Becoming increasingly distressed, he tried to yell out for John, before realising that he was wearing an oxygen mask. He threw it off his face in a panic.

"JOHN!" He screamed out, suddenly wishing that he hadn't put so much pressure on his airway.

"JO-" He started again, before being cut off my a bout of coughing. He looked up briefly and saw John standing over him, patting him on the back and holding out a bowl for him. Sherlock was coughing up, and soon throwing up, a greenish-yellow liquid into the bowl John had provided for him.

"Alright now, Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded, and made a little note to himself to not yell, or in fact speak a lot. It hurt too much.

"Where are we?" He asked John. John raised an eyebrow.

"If I told you, you'd find a way to get out."

Sherlock was, for once in his life, perplexed. "How could I get out now? I'm obviously dying."

"Well Sherlock," John replied, "If we didn't catch on to it, you could have died."

Sherlock let there be a little pause. "Why aren't we in the hospital?"

"Well, I thought you wouldn't like it there. And in your condition, I thought a bit of countryside air would be good for you." John knew him well. There was another pause, before another thought.

"Why do you just _happen_ to have the right equipment here to treat me?" After a long pause of John trying to figure out whether he should tell Sherlock the truth, or tell a lie and hope that Sherlock would be more gullible when he was ill.

"I borrowed it from the hospital as a favour." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked up and down at John.

"Lies." He proclaimed. He didn't even bother to evaluate. He simply asked, "Please tell me it's not Mycroft's."

John remained silent. Sherlock grunted and rolled over. John had barely left the room when he heard his roommate's calls again.

"I'm bored. Entertain me." With a sigh, John responded. "Sherlock, if you're bored, just go to bed. It'll do you good."

"What about the janitor with the stab wounds? I have to get to the scarlet lady to solve the case!" John proceeded to leave the room, ignoring Sherlock's calls. Sherlock was just so bored, and obviously dying, so he decided to just go to bed.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in another new place. With no medical equipment. He must have recovered while he was sleeping!

He opened his eyes, but still couldn't see a thing.

He was, for a second time, afraid. "JOHN!" he called out, with a bad case of déjà vu, and immediately regretted that as he coughed up some more greenish-yellow liquid. Maybe he wasn't much better after all. But why would John allow him to be unhooked from his medical kit if he hadn't recovered yet? Thinking of John, where was he?

Finishing his bout of coughing, he remained dead silent, and heard some echoing footsteps, followed by a conversation between two people, clearly angry at each-other, and obviously trying to keep it quiet.

There were a few whispers which he couldn't comprehend just yet, and then a much harsher, louder tone, which he could make out clearly.

"What do you mean, 'you haven't tied him up yet'?!"

"I was just about to, but then I heard him call for his companion."

"Well, just give him a sedative! You know where the button is! Just push it, you idiot!"

Sherlock began to panic, realizing that they were talking about him. He was looking around, expecting to see someone attempt to give him a sedative, but he heard some metal objects shifting, and then a cold feeling in his left forearm. He didn't have long before he would pass out, but he still had time to make a deduction.

"My arm! They had an IV in my arm and I didn't even notice!"

Meanwhile, John was sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea in his hand, and reading the newspaper, because this country house had no TV reception. Sherlock hadn't spoken in hours. He must have fallen asleep.

This time, Sherlock woke up to find that he was, in fact, tied up. He appeared to be on a wall, two restraints on his arms, two on his legs, and one around his belly.

He opened his eyes for a third time, but didn't call out this time. It seemed he didn't need to, because almost as soon as he opened his eyes, he was hit with a bright spotlight. He didn't have use of his arms, so he squeezed his eyes shut.

He heard the footsteps again. He felt too dizzy to attempt to figure out what was going on – he was still sick, and right now wanted nothing more than to be on the couch at 221B.

"Well, well, well, Mr Sherlock Holmes." A woman. Not _the _woman, obviously, but a female person. She paused, before delivering another line to him.

"Didn't Mycroft teach you how to respect people? Answer me when I talk to you, and look at me as you do so." She was using a calm tone, but was starting to get a bit snarky.

Sherlock, his eyes still firmly shut, and his head turned away from the light, attempting to reserve his limited supply of oxygen from his pneumonia, practically whispered his response, "Turn that light down."

"Sorry dear? I couldn't hear you." She was still being quite cheeky, and Sherlock had already had enough of it. He used every bit of oxygen he had left to force the same words out of his mouth, but louder this time,

"TURN THAT LIGHT DOWN!" He was now panting, sucking air through his lips, now purple from oxygen deprivation.

"Sure sweetie, you only had to ask."

Sherlock didn't even bother to reply, because he was too busy trying to bear the pain of his chest, and didn't want to use up more air than he needed to. The spotlight was turned down to a reasonable brightness, and Sherlock could see his captor. Brown hair, hanging, but held back with a rose-clip, red stilettoes, and an asymmetrical, silky red dress. It looked more suited to the red carpet than to what it was currently being used for.

"Why are you here?" He barely whispered.

"I am here," She left a dramatic pause, "To finish your case." Sherlock, even in his weakened state, was able to deduce that this was the one he was looking for. The scarlet lady.

"Yes, I do know what you are thinking. I am your murderer."

"Why, why did you murder him?"

"He was my brother. You see, we were fraternal twins. Our parents were murdered when we were both 15 years old. We were practically orphans, and we had to fend for ourselves because no orphanages would have us. My brother, desperate to survive, left me all by myself, so he would only have to provide for himself. He found a job as a janitor, and me, as a murderer. I was my own boss, murdering for a living. My anger built up, until I tortured and killed my own brother."

Sherlock was left speechless, partly because he didn't know what to say, and partly because he couldn't anyway.

"Well, now I've told you, I'm going to have to kill you. Or maybe not. All I want to do is hear you scream."

She walked over to a wall and pushed another button. The wall Sherlock was pinned to shifted, and became a floor, that looked much like one where an alien would be dissected. Sherlock just hoped that the same wouldn't happen to him.

John was walking around the kitchen, making dinner for him and Sherlock. He hadn't heard from Sherlock in hours.

As soon as he had finished cooking, he went to deliver Sherlock his dinner, and almost jumped out of his skin when he found that Sherlock was missing. John had to find him. Now, where could he have been taken? Sherlock had taught him some skills of deduction, and surely he could figure this out.

Sherlock was now practically lying on the floor, pinned down with his restraints. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, his captor preparing a dagger with a silver handle, much like the one that had killed her brother.

Sherlock's stomach dropped. This attacker didn't leave only one stab wound in her previous victim. He had one on his cheek, one on his thigh, and one across his stomach, aside from the one in his chest that had killed him.

She started where she must have deemed least painful – his thigh. She slowly cut across his thigh, blood spurting out. Sherlock was staying strong.

The captor, annoyed at Sherlock's low reaction, slowly moved across to he stomach, slowly cutting across, causing Sherlock to lose even more blood, a strange colour from oxygen deprivation. Sherlock was beginning to cry. He couldn't hold it in any longer. Satisfied, the killer sliced across his cheek. Sherlock cried out in pain.

He was wailing, and begging for mercy. The killer was finally ready to actually kill.

She had the knife poised, ready for the final blow, when John came barging into the room. He was obviously expecting a fight, but the scarlet lady took off, probably still trying to avoid the law.

John caught sight of Sherlock, and ran over.

Thank goodness he had his medical bag. Sherlock was going to need some serious medical help.

He began treating the cuts, and reassuring Sherlock, trying to keep him awake. If he passed out, he might never wake up again. "I have an ambulance on it's way. Lestrade and his crew are also coming to catch the killer. It's OK Sherlock, please, don't die."

He bandaged up the cuts tightly, and waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Sherlock, now completely safe, in a hospital this time, was actually recovering from his illness, and now injuries.

The cuts were deep, and an operation was required to stitch them up again.

He had managed to fracture his ankle, probably in the struggle to get the unconscious man restrained. Not to mention the pneumonia, which had only gotten worse.

John was at his bedside, watching him sleep. The only visible stitches were on his face, and his ankle was in a cast, hanging up from the hospital bed. He had the proper equipment for the treatment of pneumonia installed.

John was happy that Sherlock was being treated, but decided to never visit that little country home ever again.

About two or three weeks later, Sherlock had completely recovered from his pneumonia. The stitches, however, were still visible, but would become less and less visible as they healed properly. He could walk on both legs properly, but still had the injured one wrapped up in a bandage. He was sitting on the sofa with John, both with a cup of tea in their hands.

"John," He asked

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"How did you find me?"

"What do you mean…"

"I mean, how did you know where I was being held?"

"Well, I simply made a deduction" He said with a smirk.

"Well, I figured that since you hadn't been gone for a very long time, there wouldn't have been much time for you to get away. I went to the closest building you could have gotten to, and luckily enough, they had phone reception so I called an ambulance and Lestrade – just in case something had happened. Then I just looked around and found you."

"Did you find the woman?" He asked after letting the story sink in.

"Yes. Well, there was only one person in the building. Was she wearing a red dress, and have brown hair?"

Sherlock nodded his head.

"Well, good thing we got the right person!"

"How long will she be detained for?"

"Oh, it's a life sentence. She is really unpredictable"

And then everything was happy at 221B.

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**OK, cheesy ending, I know. And if I rushed the ending, I'm sorry. Be sure to leave a review, whether you liked it or hated it to the depths of hell (if that even makes sense...)!**

**Melissa xxx**


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